Control Lost
by Digital Tempest
Summary: Her pain was her own. It wasn’t meant to be shared. It wasn’t meant to be understood. The kind of pressure she could overcome was enough to break millions in its wake, but she brought it to a halt, stared it down, made it bend to her will. Complete.
1. I Strength

**Disclaimer: **If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended. That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream. Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend _(Shakespeare)._ I don't own any characters recognizable from _X-Men_. Marvel, et al, owns all characters. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** Challenge fic. Her pain was her own. It wasn't meant to be shared. It wasn't meant to be understood. The kind of pressure she could overcome was enough to break millions in its wake, but she brought it to a halt, stared it down, made it bend to her will. Her control was the stuff of legends. And her perfected control was something she refused to compromise, even for the death of her friend. Surrender doesn't come without price, but this was not a love song.

* * *

_Theme #3: The Sexuality of Terror, or "Help, I'm out of control, thank God!"  
Verse: Movie-verse. Post X2. Not taking into account Halle's new wig for X3.  
Dedication: This one is for the homies. ;)  
Lyrics excerpts from "Breaking the Girl" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but most of my inspiration came from a song called "Ebla" by E.S. Posthumus and "Breathe (2 A.M.)" by Anna Nalick  
Special thanks to Sassy Lil Scorpio for all her marvelous input. I don't know where this story would be without her. I also want to give a special thanks to Nick, Monica, and Anna who were kind enough to take different sections of this fic and proofread it for me._

* * *

_**Control Lost**  
by Tempest_

_**I. Strength  
**She was a girl  
Soft, but estranged_

The mansion was a lot quieter these days. Seldom was there any laughter without guilt; the halls smelled of tears and grief. Everyone had their own way of dealing with the tragedy, but one thought unified all minds, "_What more could I have done to prevent this?_" They tried to take comfort in the fact that Jean had chosen her own fate. She made herself the martyr to save them.

Between classes and the team missions, Ororo rarely stayed in the mansion anymore, preferring the soothing touch of Mother Nature to the suffocating sorrow of the mansion. She didn't know if anything would ever mend the hurt, the rage, she felt. She searched the skies, her mind, her heart, her friends for answers, but there were none to be found.

She tried to remind herself that life springs from death, but her heart rebelled against that idea. What life could possibly come from Jean's death? What good had come from her death? They were still hated and feared; the incident at Alkali Lake was nothing more than a rumor in the wind; the collapse of the dam blamed on substandard structure.

The world continued on as it always had while they suffered in silence; the professor with his secrets; Scott with his nightmares; Logan with his lost memories; her with her dreams. Despite the blow Jean's death had dealt, they still had the ability to pull together and face their assignments as a team. The missions were the only time the team expressed themselves.

All the anger, pain, and frustration was directed toward whatever enemy they faced. Every misguided mutant, every potential enemy, was a concern. The influx of new students helped the current students cope; they provided a distraction for them. Life kept going for them. They would grow up and this tragedy would be only a distant memory. Youth allowed such proclivities.

She continued down the hallway, but paused when she saw the door to Jean's classroom open. The room hadn't been used since Jean's death. She pushed the door open. Nothing had changed; it was like walking into a picture. Jean's neat, precise handwriting rolled across the plains of the chalkboard, her papers sat untouched on her desk. Echoes of Jean's clear voice still filled the room.

The only thing out of place was Scott. He sat in the windowsill, looking out the window, gripping one of Jean's texts in his hand. The setting sun accentuated the gaunt hollows of his face. Ororo treaded toward him slowly; he didn't turn to acknowledge her. "Scott?" She reached toward him, but she let her hand drop to her side. Her heart ached to look at him, but she felt she couldn't provide him with the comfort he needed.

Scott turned toward her slowly. "Every morning I wake up and I regret, Ororo. Will I ever be okay, again?" Scott asked. His face cracked for a moment. He dropped his head, burying his hands in his hair. His body shook for a moment, a silent sob. He took a few deep breaths, and when he looked up again, his face was void of emotion.

Broken, that's all she could think when she looked at Scott these days. He'd always been a stronghold in her life, in everyone's life. Dependable, strong in the face of adversity, capable, these were words that were generally used to describe Scott, but now, he was just broken like a child's favorite toy.

She had never thought of him as fragile, but everyday as she helplessly watched him waste away, she noticed how his shoulders rounded in defeat, how diminutive he seemed in a room when he had once commanded so much presence. But this _was_ the ultimate defeat. They would continue to live out the professor's dream while the hurt continued to fester until…

Until what? She didn't know. For the first time in a long time, she couldn't see beyond this moment. Whatever happened next was anyone's guess, and she'd always known this. Being part of the X-Men meant that life was a constant upheaval, but none of that means anything when you have your friends at your side. It didn't matter what life threw at you, as long as the people you loved were constant.

She tried to be the beacon of strength during these tough times, tried to lend her strength to those who needed it most, while keeping her own emotions in control. She had to be the one to protect them. She had to be the infallible voice of reason and the will to endure. She had to save everyone from themselves.

She had shed few tears, and when she'd wiped them from her face, she'd look at them with wonder. Tears were foreign to her. There were few times in her life that she had actually cried. And she'd admit only to herself that she was tired. This had taken a lot out of her, and everyday she could felt more and more of her energy being sapped away from her doing just the mundane things in her life. But she had to keep it together, to muster up strength from somewhere.

Sleep was her only way to reenergize, her only escape, her only means of really getting any rest, even with her cryptic dreams that meant everything and nothing. In her dreams, no one needed her. She was safe from all her emotions. She was free to lose control while lost in this fantasy world that her mind concocted. Sometimes, she'd wake up and all she'd want to do is go back to sleep.

She wouldn't falter, though. She would stay strong for herself, for her family.

- - -

**Side note:** This fic is almost done, and I'd originally thought I post it as one long one-shot, but that's not in the stars. The next to last chapter of this fic (or the last chapter for this site) will be edited due to some explicit sexual content, but if you want to read it, it will be posted in it's entirety at either the Rolo Realm and Adultfanfiction – both links can be found in my profile.


	2. II Control

_**II. Control  
**We_ _were the two  
Our lives rearranged_

Ororo's sense of control would be maddening, if Logan didn't think it was admirable. The kind of pressure she could overcome was enough to break millions in its wake, but she brought it to a halt, stared it down, made it bend to her will. Her control was Herculean, the stuff of legends. And her perfected control was something she refused to compromise, even for the death of her friend. Admirable, yes, but very flawed beneath the surface.

She showed little emotion over Jean's death. Her best fucking friend had died to save her ass—to save all their asses—and she couldn't even grieve properly. He knew it was there, all the pain, all the rage. It emitted from her body like venom, poisoning the air with a mixture pain and sandalwood.

At first, he thought it was her pride. She had to take some kind of pleasure in being in control of her emotions. It didn't matter what happened she was always the personification of calmness. There were moments when her mask would slip and she would let an emotion slip over her face, but blink once and she would be the face of tranquility, again.

Later, from careful observation, he learned she believed this was something she _had_ to do. She _had_ to keep herself under control. She _had_ to be the sensible one. She _had_ to be able to handle the pressure. She _had_ to be the fortress because the others expected it from her. They needed her calm to see them through.

Ororo was like a surrogate mother to those in the mansion. She didn't hold one over the other, caring deeply for everyone. She often helped many of them with almost anything they needed. They could go to her with their problems, and she would offer them her wisdom without passing judgment. She was warm to each and every one of them, and it was obvious that her love for them was boundless.

But she couldn't always play the savior and protector. They were living in a conundrum of sadness these days; the emotions were too convoluted, even for her to make sense of, but she refused to see that, thinking she could make everything right.

He remembered something Jean had told him one time about the need she felt to control her emotions because of the effect she could have on the weather. He could understand the principle behind that. If her emotions spun out of control, the weather might reflect the shifts in her mood. But he didn't believe she'd _let_ that happen, even if she did let herself express some form of emotion. He believed she was just afraid.

He sought her out, finding her in the parlor, alone. She let her limbs splay freely on the couch—one leg crooked over the arm of the couch while the other rested on the couch. She was pretending to read, but she didn't turn the page nor did her eyes move. She just stared at the book blankly.

He studied her for a moment, thinking about how beautiful she was. White hair fell around her face like an angel's halo, framing dark eyes that could burn right through you. She wasn't very tall, neither was she very athletic in build. She gave the illusion of delicacy with her dove-like bones and gentle expression. But, damn if she wasn't one of the toughest broads he'd ever met.

She liked to believe that she was just background noise, nearly invisible, letting Jean take the spotlight when she was alive. But he wasn't a blind man. She was seduction enshrouded in a case of ice. The kind of woman men dreamed about possessing for themselves, but not truly brave enough to possess. She wasn't nearly as invisible as she wanted to be.

She was a demure tease; a woman who did things she didn't think was sexy, but it really was, like the way she rubbed ice across her collarbone when the days were warm or the way she would eat a mango, licking the juice from her fingers one by one. And his libido wasn't the only one she'd sent racing with her "innocent" acts.

There'd always been something about the way his named lulled on her tongue, the way she held the first syllable too long as if she were calling him, that made him shudder slightly, that made him believe that she could be his for the asking. He wasn't that stupid, though.

He walked into the parlor, walking heavily, to attract her attention. She snapped out of her thoughts, sitting up quickly in the couch. She moved too quickly and her low-cut shirt gaped for a second, giving him a private peek of black lace. Black lace, not what he was expecting. A spark of lust ignited, and he quickly quelled it. _Steady boy_, he said to himself, thinking of cold waterfalls.

He sat on the couch next to her, but with enough distance for her to be comfortable. Sometimes, he got a caged feeling from her when he was around, as if his presence sometimes made her uneasy. She just stared at him with an expectancy, placing her book in her lap, as if she knew he'd come to talk to her. There was no sense in making small talk, then. Was there?

"What's on your mind?" he asked her, trying to elicit some sort of reaction from her. But he asked out of genuine concern for her.

He could see her pulling into herself, a self-preservation mechanism. "What do you mean?" she asked evenly, crossing her arms. Her expression betrayed nothing but her caution.

"I mean with all that's goin' on."

She raised her eyebrows at him, her lips setting in a grim line. "Everything is fine," she said evasively. That seemed to be her mantra these days. Everything was fine. She was fine. They would all be fine.

"What is your problem?" he challenged.

"There is no problem."

"Life is just _fuckin_' grand, ain't it?" He said before he meant to.

"That's not what I said," she answered defensively. She furrowed her eyebrows at him.

"That's what you're actin' like." He didn't mean to say that. He didn't really believe she pretended that everything was okay. He knew she was painfully aware of everything. But he forged ahead, anyway. "Why are you so scared to show any emotion?"

"Because it's just so difficult…" she started. He noted a pain her eyes, and for a moment, she let the mask fall. Her vulnerability shone through, and he moved closer to her. They were making progress. The first inkling of a tear formed in her eyes, and he thought that the dam would break at any moment. She dropped her head, suddenly. Was she ashamed of her emotions, that she was showing him that she cared?

"Or maybe, I am just weak," she continued, her voice shaking a bit, as she looked down at her hands. He cupped her jaw, guiding her face back up. A single strand of hair fell into her eyes. He moved it gingerly and tucked it behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her face longer than they should.

That spark of heat flared again, followed by guilt, and he was sure that she'd felt it in his touch.

"You're not weak just because ya show what you feel," he said. When you stripped away the powers, they were still only human, vulnerable to their own emotions. Just because they were mutants didn't take that away from them.

"My pain is my own, Logan. It's not meant to be shared. It's not meant to be understood."

"But it doesn't have to be," he said.

But doe brown eyes searched into his eyes for him to understand. A Mona Lisa smiled asked him to accept what he could not change. But what he really wanted to do was kiss her, to claim her mouth as his own. Some caring son-of-a-bitch he was turning out to be.

_X-Men_. A mental call from Charles. The moment was broken. They had a mission.


	3. III Failure

_**III. Failure  
**She_ _was a girl  
Left alone_

Failed, failed again. They'd gone on a mission only to _fail_. With every mission they failed, it drove the nail in her coffin in a little deeper, reminded her that they weren't successful all the time. But she didn't need a mission to tell her that.

Ororo stood from her bed, walking to the double doors leading to her balcony. She unlatched the lock and opened the doors, staring out into the darkness. . Where she had once found peace watching the night sky, attuning herself to the weather's changing moods, she could now find no solace. Thunderheads loomed in the night sky, blotting out the light of the stars and the moon. There would be a storm come morning

She swallowed hard, thinking of the mission. They were supposed to save a young mutant. She had wondered what made this boy more special than the rest. What made the professor chose him and not any of the other mutants that were in distress that very minute? How did he chose who was worthy of being saved and who wasn't? How could he play God with lives that were not his for the taking?

Her fingernails bit into palm as she clenched her fist tightly—an aide-mémoire that she needed to refocus her anger. She closed her eyes, taking in a deep, meditative breath. She would not direct her anger toward the professor. She would not direct her anger toward anyone but those who deserved it.

Nonetheless, her opinions on the matter were of no real consequence. If the boy was possibly alive, it was up to them to save him. Scott rarely argued the justifications in such missions anymore, even after she had shared her thoughts with him. It was a distraction, needed or not. It didn't matter how many lives they saved, though. They would never be able to shake the guilt they felt about Jean.

With the professor's guidance, Scott led them to some rundown house in the middle of nowhere where the boy endured goddess knows what. There was nothing when they found him, save for a husk of a teenage boy left. Lifeless, gray skin tried vainly to contain bones that threatened to split through the skin at any moment. His mouth was permanently O-shaped, emitting an unvoiced scream that would never be silenced.

And all she could think was that the boy had been alive, living and breathing, only hours before. But when they found him, he looked like he'd been dead for years. Death had a way of being more real at such times. Her own indigenous anguish over Jean only served to intensify the moment.

"_Mein_ _Gott…_" Kurt had muttered behind her; to add the exclamation to Kurt's statement, the corpse's head fell back, teetering dangerously as if it would come off at any moment. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. She felt a warm hand wrap around her own, bringing her out of her stupor—Kurt. Kurt's lips moved rapidly. He'd been praying. She wished she could take comfort in something as Kurt did his God at that moment.

There was nothing they could do for him; there was little evidence of what even happened to him. Would they ever know what happened to him? Probably not, and such was life with the X-Men. Had he had any family? She found herself thinking about that a lot lately. Did the villains they encounter have anyone they loved, anyone who'd grieve for them when they died?

The boy's clothes had been tattered, hanging around his thin body like a worn death shroud. She assumed he was a runaway, but it was possible his own family had thrown him out. Maybe his own family had been the ones who did that to him. She could never be sure in those situations. They lived in trying times, and people were capable of anything, even evil towards those they should've considered closest to them.

Leaving the scene, she'd felt her hands start shaking, and she'd clasp them together to stop the shaking. "You okay?" Logan had asked her, reaching out to touch her shaking hands. And she'd flinched away from his touch. Not because she didn't want him to touch her but because he'd seen _it_—that imperceptible crack in her mental armor. The shaking only affirmed it.

Pain touched his eyes for only a moment. She hadn't meant to hurt him. Goddess knows he'd been hurt enough without her adding to it. And Goddess knows she hurt enough not to want to cause anyone else any more pain. "I'm sorry. It wasn't you. I just…" She couldn't even finish her thought. She just shook her head and walked away. It was the second time she'd shown him that she was weak. If he loathed her, she would deserve it.

Logan, the enigma. She'd often chuckled internally at the way he pursued Jean like a love struck teenager. He challenged Scott to up his romance game. Something that Ororo thought Scott needed. He'd become too comfortable in his relationship with Jean, thinking that she would always be his because that's the way things had always been—until Logan came along.

Then, Scott had felt threatened like he rightly should have. And maybe Jean had played a bit of the Devil's advocate by showing mild interest in Logan's advances. She just never figured out if it was because to fuel Scott's jealousy or if it was because she truly enjoyed Logan's attention.

Jean had a right to be flattered by his attention. He was forbidden desire personified. Dark, brooding looks beckoned and dissuaded, invited and frightened. Animal magnetism oozed from him like a dangerous pheromone. He had the ability to make the coldest blood run hot when he entered the room. He was the kind of man you'd give yourself to willingly but not without paying a price. She noticed that. What woman with a pulse didn't? But she didn't dwell on it; she did not covet what she knew she couldn't have.

He caught her by surprise, earlier, though. No one ever asked about her feelings, a thing of her own doing. She was surprised at the things she admitted to him when he challenged her to come clean with her feelings. She didn't want to release them. She wanted to hold on to her feelings, _had_ to hold on to them. Not just because she feared losing control, but because she feared some weakness in herself that would show that she wasn't the even-tempered person everyone knew.

She had tried to explain that to him, but he didn't understand. No one really understood. Just because she chose to suppress her emotions didn't mean that she didn't feel. Oh, she felt more than they thought she did.

She could still her own mental screams—excruciating, pleading, angry—from that day at Alkali Lake, a sound she'd never be able to express physically. She had felt her pain wash over her like the tide of the waters washed over Jean.

Jean's death reminded her that nothing was inert. That was something they took for granted. Even though they knew that violence and death was part of their life, they expected things to stay the same, but life was embryonic, ever growing, ever changing. Someday they would all die, and until they fully embraced that, they were all hopeless.

Still it was unfair that life—_that fate_—had its pick and choose of who lived and who died. One day, you're laughing and smiling with your best friend, and the next day, she's gone. And there was no warning prelude to her death, she was just gone. It was as if some unknown deity looked down on the world and said, "You have stayed too long."

But every night she saw Jean's face in her dreams, her lips moving slowly, telling her that death was not the end. However, they were just fleeting dreams, a psychological unreality, not meant to be taken literally.

How she wished Jean's death had planted some hedonistic seed in her soul. She wished that she could preserve the memory of her friend by cherishing whatever life she had left. She wished Jean's death made her want to have more, to sing more, to love more, to give more, to take more. Jean hadn't died so her heart could dry up like a flower withering beneath the cruel sun. Jean had died so she—so they all—could _live_.

She wasn't living, though, a disrespect to her friend's memory. She was barely breathing. She just went through the motions, did what was expected of her, did what she could to comfort those around her while her emotions held a silent battle within her.

Smiles, laughter, they meant nothing to her now. _They_ had come and swept through her life like a vengeful fire, stealing what vitality she had left. What was taken from her, she felt she could never regain. _I will repay_, she said to herself like some unforgiving goddess. What little compassion she had left she reserved for those in the mansion.

She appreciated Logan's concern and honesty, but he had to be content with the fact this was who she was. Perhaps if she had someone to share her grief with, some other that made her complete.

But there was no other. Her control wouldn't allow it. It effected so much of her life. Her inability to truly let go caused her to form fragile relationships with the men she dated. They were always on the verge of breaking, and it wasn't truly anyone's fault but her own. Her relationships started out warmly enough, but she would become afraid when she felt herself becoming too involved. The warmth would die, leading way to indifference, which led to the inevitable.

What was it she had told Logan earlier?

"My pain isn't meant to be shared," she whispered to herself. Never had she spoken truer words. This was her burden to bear and hers alone. She would be content with that. It was all she'd ever known.

- - -

**Author's Note:** I'm still editing the next chapter to comply with the site's rules. Thanks for your reviews thus far. I'm glad that you're enjoying the story. Next chapter as soon as I can find an acceptable way to present it on this site.


	4. IV Release

_**IV. Release  
**Twisting and turning  
Your feelings are burning  
You're breaking the girl_

She was standing in the doorway leading to her veranda, draped in a white, silk robe he'd seen her in a million times before. It was modest while being too revealing. It was long and graceful; something you'd expect her to wear. But every move she made, every curve she possessed, was reflected in that robe. And he'd been guilty of watching her ass in that robe a thousand times over.

Even now, as she stood there, he could make out the soft contours of her breasts that tapered into a small waist accentuated by lush hips. _Don't go there, bub,_ he said to himself, reminding himself that he hadn't came there to ogle her.

Her curtains wafted in the breeze as a chill ran through her room. She didn't as much as shudder as the winter's breeze blew. She just stood silently, facing it head on. Then, she turned to him, slowly, her face as cool as the breeze attacking her room. Finally, she closed the double doors to the veranda softly, securing the latches.

"Hello, Logan," she said with just a hint of a smile. "What brings you here?"

"Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

She let out a nervous chuckle. "I'm fine." The ever emotionless leader. Everything's _fine_ again.

He knew she was bothered by her earlier show of emotion, and her agitation had only grown during and after the mission. He'd been the only one who saw how her hand trembled after they found that kid in the abandoned house, and she pulled away from him almost fearfully. At first, he convinced himself that it was a natural reaction to him, but when she tried to explain herself, cutting her own thoughts off, leaving him standing there staring after her, he realized it wasn't him. It was _her_.

"I don't think you're fine. Back there at the house with the kid, you seemed bothered."

"Yes, I was," she admitted with little emotion, as if she were explaining the technicalities involved in performing heart surgery. "Doesn't it bother you sometime? I mean, it's like we're playing God sometimes, taking our pick and choose of who's life is more important. And it seems like even when we decide that this person is worthy of saving that we still fail at saving them sometimes. Then, you have to wonder if we'd chosen the other person's life over this one, would we have been successful?"

"Is that really what's bothering you?" he asked, not convinced. It wasn't that she hadn't made a valid point. Hell, it was something he sometimes found himself thinking about. And it wasn't that he didn't believe it was something that she cared about, but he thought there was much more being left unsaid.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've been doin' this how long and now you think to question the consequences of choosing who lives and who dies?" He didn't mean for it to sound accusing, but he could tell by the look on her face that she was taking it as such. "I think you're just tryin' to find somethin' to distract you from the real problem."

"Logan, I refuse to have this conversation with you," she started, her voice tight, as if he'd just hit her in the stomach, like she just knew what he was going to say. Maybe she did, but that didn't mean she was going to stop him from saying it.

"I think more of this has to do with what happened at Alkali Lake more than you'll admit. You haven't showed any real emotion since—"

She waved a commanding hand quickly. "Don't say it," she said her voice the equivalent of stone with an expression to match. He could see her eyes lighting up like a stormy sky, though.

"Why not?" he challenged.

"Because… because I'm not ready yet. There will be time for me to come to terms with what happened that day. There will be time for me to grieve." Ororo said haltingly.

"When? When everyone else has moved on and you're left here carryin' the weight of everyone's sadness?"

"I am not a perfect person, Logan…" She said trailing, her voice giving way to tiredness.

She couldn't even see that she was hurting herself by refusing to allow herself to express her emotions. The rage wouldn't subside. The pain wouldn't fade over time. It would only continue to grow like a fire with an endless supply of fuel. She thought she was capable of handling such emotions, but in the end, it would consume her from the inside out.

"Who is?" he barely showed any emotion, taking a cue from her, but he felt his anger at the easy way she tried to disregard the situation creeping up his spine, screaming in his head. He repeated himself just as calmly while his anger continued to rage inside his head. Each word was a punctuated staccato snap off his lips, "who is, _Storm_?"

It was exactly the point he wanted to get across to her. She didn't have to be so damn perfect all the time. She needed to let loose like the rest of them—scream, cry, rip shit apart. Why _couldn't_ she be angry like the rest of them? Why couldn't she hurt like everyone else? Wasn't she entitled to such feelings?

"You didn't let me finish," she said, her voice even. "I'm not a perfect person. A perfect person would've found a way to save her friend. She would find a way to heal everyone's pains. She would find a way to heal her own pain."

"But—"

And there was that authoritative hand, silencing him again.

"For my own failures, for my own piece of mind, I have to do this. To let myself be overcome with emotion is dangerous, but I will find a way to deal with it in my own time. This is the only way I know to be. This is how I have always been."

"But you ain't doin' nothin' but tearin' yourself down, and then, when there's nothin' left, what good will you be to anybody? What good will you be to yourself?" he asked angrily.

"Why are you so persistent? Tell me how I'm supposed to feel, how I'm supposed to act. How? Tell me, and that's what I will be. Do you want to hear how much I hate those who have hurt us? How every night I pray for vengeance?" She asked him in a quite voice that did little to hide her own anger, her eyes liquid fire. He'd pushed her, and now she was pushing back.

"Or do you want to hear how _angry_ I am with her? Am I supposed to scream at a ghost? Not even that. What do you want to hear? Do you want to hear how much she hurt me? How could she do this to me? How could she leave me? How could she be so selfish?" Lightning cracked in the distance, and she put her hands behind her neck, locking her fingers. "Breathe, breathe, you're stronger than this," he heard her whispering to herself.

She paced the floor, furiously, her robe whispering angrily around her feet. Back and forth, back and forth, a tiger ready to attack. "It's okay," he said, grabbing her arms lightly, breaking her even pace. It was okay for her to be angry with Stryker. It was okay for her to be angry with Jean. It was okay for her to feel abandoned. Though they might not admit it, they all felt it to some degree. It wasn't fair that Jean made this decision, that she left them all.

"No! It's _not_ okay!" she shouted, trying to pull her arms from his grip. She jerked against him so violently that he nearly let her go out of fear of hurting her. Then, she stopped, leaning on him like a crutch. Her body trembled against his slightly and he could smell the first drop of tears. Her tears fell soundlessly as she tried to hold on to her decorum, to elude vulnerability.

He placed his arms around her cautiously, wondering how this was going to pan out. And where exactly was he supposed to put his hands? He decided to let them rest around her waist on the small of her back, hoping it wasn't too intimate or too offensive. She didn't seem to mind much as she moved closer to him, and God forgive him, he felt an ache in his loins for her.

She pulled back from him, slightly, gazing at him for a second. She was confusing him with what he thought he saw in her eyes but didn't truly believe he saw, but his nose never lied. The smell of longing and need lingered in the air. She touched the side his face softly, her pulse beating like butterfly wings. Her hand felt was warm silk on his skin, and on impulse he kissed the palm of her hand.

She pressed her lips to his softly, using her tongue to part his lips, bridging a path between their tongues. Her kisses were urgent and sweet like honey. How many times had he played this scene out in his head? How many times had he thought about devouring her lips with his own, her legs wrapped around his hips in passion? _Too many_.

In the back of his mind, though, he wasn't so sure that this was what she really needed, but he savored more of her kiss, feeding off her lips like they were a forbidden fruit. Somewhere in the distance thunder boomed, but it didn't match the thunder booming in his body, through his blood, in his heart.

She broke the kiss, sighing softly, and he was sure that she'd come to her senses. This is where she would tell him that this was nice, but it couldn't happen. This was the part where her rationale would set in because his sure as hell wasn't. What if he got it all wrong? What if he somehow managed to fuck it all up?

He didn't know what women like her liked. Women like her were on a different plane when it came to sex. She was in that higher class of woman, one that he never encountered because he just wasn't good enough. He wasn't their type. He was too rough, too feral. He gave too little, and he took too much. But, once again, she didn't seem to much mind.

She didn't stop, as she ran her fingers through his wild hair, tickling the base of his neck with languid fingers. She kissed his neck lightly, and he would've sworn that he felt jolts of electricity rush through him. Her tongue flickered across the sensitive flesh, and he tried to fight back an appreciative groan when she nipped his skin lightly.

"Your flesh is so nice," she whispered against his neck, the brush of her lips teasing with every word.

"And I bet yours is just as nice," he said. Before he could taste her, she put one finger to his lips. _Not yet_, it said. She was in control now, but for how long? How much longer would the animal inside of him allow her to play this slow game of seduction?

She pulled away from him again, leaving an emptiness where her body had once been, and he fought the instinct to pull her back into him, to rip the robe from her body, and make her succumb to him. He would let her set the pace, follow her lead, and see where things took them. Nimble fingers untied the silk sash that held her robe together, and it fell to the floor without much attention from either party.

She didn't drop the robe immediately, and that only made his need for her grow. For just a fleeting moment, he wondered if she always walked around the mansion nude beneath her robe. She kissed him again; her lips were thunder and lightning, electrifying every nerve ending, belying the cool demeanor she often presented. And he returned her kiss hungrily, placing his hands firmly on her waist, pulling her into him with more force than he'd intended.

She didn't break their searing kiss as she pulled his shirt from his pants, her hands slipping under the material, her hips grinding into his—a silent offering, her robe whisking to and fro with every move. A low growl of want escaped from his lips—the only warning he could offer her. If she didn't turn back now, she wouldn't have a chance to later.

She pulled the shirt over his head, her robe opening wider, revealing more, like a package being unwrapped slowly, as she lifted her arms and his shirt. Soft breasts and warm skin assaulted his bare skin, as she slid down his body to her knees. Warm fingers sank into the skin of his waist, her lips burning an unknown language into the bare skin of his stomach.

The button of his jeans seemed to give way to her very touch. She pulled the metal clasp of his jeans down slowly, too slowly, giving him too much time to imagine what would happen once she did get his jeans undone. He liked what he saw, but that was _not_ how the shit was about to go down.

He pulled her to her feet, maybe a little too roughly. She looked at him startled by this sudden breach of command. She pulled her robe tighter to her body, as if this sudden shift of things had shocked some sense into her. He wouldn't let her get away that easy. She held her ground, staring him down as she would one of her adversaries.

His body was in action before his mind could concede. He pulled her toward him, parting the robe, pushing it from her body. Some people like to believe that if you've seen one naked woman, you've seen them all. Not him. She was beautiful, her brown skin glowing in the moonlight. She wasn't ashamed of her nakedness, showing no signs that his intense gaze bothered her at all.

He buried his face in the hollow her neck, relishing in the intoxicating sweet, musky smell that she emitted. The taste of her skin was like a potent aphrodisiac against his tongue, torturous and heady. The more he tasted, the more he wanted. The animal in him wanted her _now_. He wanted her breathless, twisting and turning in pleasure under him, preferably calling—no, _screaming_—his name. The part of him that truly cared about her—the part of him that respected her—wanted _this_ to last, wanted it to be more than what the act implicated, wanted her to crave his touch for a lifetime.

He scattered soft kisses down her chest, her head dropping back, as he placed a kiss between her breasts. Her heart thundered against his lips. _Boom._ _Boom._ _Boom._ Like a coming storm. _Coming Storm_, he repeated to himself. _Heh._ He liked the sound of that.

Suddenly, she was pushing him away, but pulling him toward her all in the same motion. The hand on his chest pushed, the hand on his arm pulled, and he didn't even think she realized it. He pulled her close to him; he could feel her withdrawing, warring within herself. "Just let go," he growled into her ear, and she shuddered against him, closing her eyes.

For a moment, she did let go, but just as quickly as she let go, she tensed again. "I can't. Not like _this_." She managed to slip away from him, shaking her head at him, backing away. This time for good if he let her. She started this, and he was going to finish it.

- - -

She was the one who made the mistake of turning her back on him, thinking she could scuttle over the bed quicker than he could catch her. Goddess, _scrambling_ across the bed like a little girl running from the big bad wolf. She would've taken the time to be ashamed if she had the time to think about such trivialities.

What she been thinking? Earlier, she'd felt a stirring she knew she should've doused and fast. She'd felt the slight glimmer of chemistry. But maybe that was because he was a man and she was a woman. Logan was the embodiment of raw sexuality. Besides, attraction didn't have a name or a face pre-attached to it. It would be so much easier if it did, though.

Her mind concentrated on the grip she felt on her ankle. He wasn't hurting her, and she believe that he wouldn't cause her any deliberate harm, but there was something she'd seen his eyes, something about his manner, that did make her a little wary. But what was she to do? She had nothing left to fight him with. She was the one that initiated this, after all, and Goddess help her, she _did_ want this. Her body ached for him, and she couldn't hide it from him.

_This is the beginning of the end_, she whispered to herself, as she slid backwards against her silk sheets. Her only defense was to grab the sheets in her hand, bringing them with her. Her attraction to him throbbed in time with her heart. That meant it was just lust. Right? Just a warm body in her bed to serve as some kind of comfort. But she knew she wasn't the type of woman who eagerly invited men into her bed because she lusted after them. Therefore, she didn't know what this was. A break in character, perhaps? A surrender of passion? Something else? There was no time to analyze.

She felt like she was falling, and she quickly dropped her legs, her feet hitting the floor with a thud. She could feel him, pressing hard into her, the rough material of his jeans caressing the backs of her thighs like calloused fingers. A rather sensuous feel, she decided. She stretched her arms forward not really sure what she intended to do. Attempt to scramble for her life again? Not hardly.

He rested his hands on her shoulders, massaging gently, continuing down her arms over her stretched arms. She laid her face to the side, her cheek brushing against the cool silk. His chest moved rhythmically on her back with each breath he took, their body heat interlocking together—an _ouroboros_ of need, want, desire mixing perpetually.

Her hips rocked against his begging for what she could not voice, as his lips skim across her shoulders. He kissed the back of her neck causing the fine hair on her body to stand at attention. Her body was like a flower unfurling to his touch.

A shudder of heat rolled in her belly, extending its fingers to every part of her body, warming her all over, as his tongue slid down her spine. He gripped her hips, motioning for her to turn to him. He was kneeling before her like a servant paying genuflection to his pagan goddess, preparing to worship at her holiest of altars.

"Tell me what you want," he said.

"I think you already know," she countered, purposefully defiant. Wasn't it obvious what she wanted? Otherwise, why else would she stand there trembling like leaves in a rainstorm?

"_Tell_ me," he demanded. She let her head drop back, staring at the ceiling above her. He was going to make her work for this; he was going to make her relinquish her control. "Look at me."

She straightened her neck, looking into his dark eyes. She realized he wasn't going any further until she said something. Goddess help her. She felt the muscles in her stomach clench at her verbal admission, but what was done couldn't be undone.

That was the funny thing about giving up control; you had to put your trust in someone else. You had to depend on someone else to be stronger, and while that didn't make her weak, she realized that it did mean that not only did she trust him but she also trusted herself and her decision to trust him.

They moved together, their bodies singing off each other as if they'd done this before in another place, in another lifetime. Release for her started as a contralto that came from deep within in her belly, rushing over her with the force of a summer storm, as she hit a high note that would've made even the best soprano jealous.

Afterwards, she laid close to him, feeding off his warmth, her eyes at half-mast, as he caressed her still quivering thighs. Neither of them said word. Nothing needed to be said, she decided as the first drops of rain hit the mansion's roof.

- - -

**Author's Notes:** I tried. I wanted this to be just as compelling as the unedited version of this chapter. I didn't just want to slap anything in here and throw it up for you all to read, but I admit it was a little hard. I wanted to leave in the "important" stuff while taking out the graphic detail. I didn't want you to get the short end of the stick, and as I mentioned in the first chapter, the unedited version can be found at the RoLo Realm (Adultfanfiction, pending).


	5. V Epilogue

_**V. Epilogue**_

Hours later, she sat in the bay window in the library, head pressed against the cool glass of the window. Absently, she stared into the rain clouds which seemed reluctant to separate and let the sun through. Ever so often, when she didn't feel Logan's eyes on her, she would look at him out of the corner of her eye. As soon as he looked her way again, she'd turn her eyes back to the storm dissipating before her like the ending to some great opera.

He sat on the small Victorian couch that always made him feel like a barbarian destroying something beautiful. He puffed on a cigar, noting that she didn't reprimand him, as she usually did. She'd been sitting in the window for an hour or longer, and he'd been sitting in that too fancy couch just as long. He wasn't unsettled by the silence between them. This was a time for reflection; this was a time for serenity.

Earlier, not too long after the first dismal ray of light lit the sky, they'd made love again. They'd given themselves to each other in what a vanilla romance novel called "reckless abandon," clinging to each other desperately as if that moment was the last moment. "Comfort me," she'd whispered in his ear. "Give me peace." Then, she cried openly afterwards, trembling with the same fire that fueled her passion, crying for everything they'd loved and lost.

Now, they sat in peaceful silence, letting the finality of it all sink in. She moved from the bay window, taking a place beside him silently. She parted her lips to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, she let her head drop to his shoulder.

"I won't leave you fallin'," he said quietly.

"I know," she answered, moving her head against his shoulder in silent agreement.

But this was not a love song; the chapters of the story were unknown. They only knew that they had to live for that moment—and that moment _only_. What happened after _that moment_ was of little importance.

_**- Fin  
April 20, 2006  
9, 047 words (original posting)**_


End file.
